


Remembrance Day

by the_fandomlife



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Gay Richie Tozier, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of self-harm, Post-Canon, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Reddie, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Temporary Amnesia, be safe kids!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21936025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_fandomlife/pseuds/the_fandomlife
Summary: Richie was snapped out of his stupor as he collided, hard, with a stranger.“What the fuck, dickwad! Do you not have eyes?” they spat.The stranger spoke hurriedly and irritably, and as Richie lifted his head to apologise…“Eddie…”It was Eddie. The same clenched jaw, the same frustrated glint in his eyes, the same immaculate hair.But something was… off. Eddie was dead, first of all.~Richie is in a very dark place when he meets a man who looks far too familiar.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya losers. I haven't posted anything on this hellsite since I started college, so I'm a lil out of practise. BUT I'm pretty excited about this storyline so maybe posting the first few parts I have will motivate me to finish the rest. IT WILL BE COMPLETED SO DON'T WORRY xD
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING MY DUDES!! Please don't read if you find mentions of self-harm or suicidal ideation distressing! I'm writing this having experienced them myself, and I'm now in a positive place to be able to write about them :)
> 
> Enjoy!

Richie’s head ached.

Alcohol swam across his eyes, through his vein, prickling at his throat. He sleepwalks through his routines these days, the bright spotlight a jarring juxtaposition to his darkened, deadened mind. He had tried ( _tried so hard damnit_ ) to start writing his own material, but each joke was punctured with self-pity and general misery. No sane, tax-paying adult would enjoy that shit, and he wasn’t all that fond of attracting the insane ones. He’d suffered quite enough insanity for one lifetime. Or three.

He rubbed wearily at his head, and stuck a wad of cash on the bar, not bothering to count it. He was well off enough, and far too tired to give a shit.  
Cold crept beneath his shirtsleeves as he flung the bar door open. Even in LA, winters were a little harsh without a coat. But his apartment was only a couple of blocks away, so he tucked his hands under his armpits and left the dingy bar behind him.

His mind didn’t so much wander, but sink. He hadn’t looked this awful since It. Greasy hair clung to his cheeks, which were scratchy with unclipped stubble. Snot and spit stained his cuffs from wiping his mouth. He couldn’t wear T-Shirts for fear that someone would notice his scars, and stare with wide-eyed horror and pity.

He hadn’t told the other Losers about… _that_. Bill had a life, away from It and all of the baggage it lugged behind it (including Richie). Ben and Bev were happy, actually _happy_. Mike… Mike was getting there, and Richie couldn’t drag him back down to any kind of dark place, especially one that Richie himself had put himself in.

Eddie would’ve understood. He would’ve sat beside Richie, wrapping a pristine bandage over his forearm with medical precision, babbling about all the infections that could have crawled into the wounds, ordering him to change the bandage in two days MAX, instructing his to put a new one on immediately or god help him will lock Richie in the basement so he won’t hurt himself again. And Richie better tell him next time he feels like this because god forbid people actually care about him despite his shitty trashmouth jokes and he doesn’t have to go through this alone-

But Eddie is dead. So he is going through this alone.

Richie was snapped out of his stupor as he collided, hard, with a stranger.

“What the fuck, dickwad! Do you not have eyes?”

The stranger spoke hurriedly and irritably, and as Richie lifted his head to apologise…  
“Eddie…”

It _was_ Eddie. The same clenched jaw, the same frustrated glint in his eyes, the same immaculate hair.

But something was… off. Eddie was dead, first of all.

_Jesus now I’m hallucinating_ , Richie thought idly, _I didn’t think I drank that much_.

Surely-Not-Eddie wore slightly tighter jeans that Eddie would have (not that Richie was paying any attention), and his jacket had a few too many zips that strictly necessary. It wasn’t like Eddie to sacrifice practicality for aesthetics. That was Richie’s job.

“Hey, dude, are you okay?” Not-Eddie asked. And god it sounded like Eddie’s voice. It had the nervous edges and stubborn compassion that Richie both admired and teased.

“God, Eddie is that you?” Richie whispered, overwhelmed, “It can’t be you…”

“Who’s Eddie?” Not-Eddie said. 

Oh. No, no, no.

“Is he your friend? Can I help find him for you?”

The more Not-Eddie spoke, the surer Richie became. He could recognise Eddie anywhere, and not just by his face. His hands were twitching; Richie knew they were itching for his inhaler. His lips were set in a worried line, one that Richie knew better than a friend should know. This was Eddie. This was beautifully, impossibly, Eddie.

“You’re Eddie. My Eds.”

“No, I’m not,” Eddie replied, confused and slightly disgruntled. “Look, let me get you a cab.”

Why wasn’t Eddie listening? If he just listened-

“No! No Eds don’t leave again, you left once and I’m not… I’m not having it!”

Richie clung to Eddie’s arm helplessly, tears beginning to distort his vision.

“Okay man I don’t know _what_ your deal is but you’re going to get in this cab and leave me the fuck alone, got it?” Frustration sparked behind Eddie’s eyes, the kind of spark lit by Bowers’ cruelty, not Richie’s teasing. Eddie really didn’t recognise him, or didn’t remember him, or _something_.

“Why don’t you know me?” Richie whimpered, desperately. “It’s me. It’s Richie, Richie Tozier!”

“You mean the stand-up guy? Shit man, just get in the cab.”

Eddie shoved him gracelessly into the backseat of a car and slammed the door in his tear-stained face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The memory of Not-Eddie only emerged on the eve of his show. Embarrassment and guilt pressed on Richie’s shoulders – he had probably traumatised the poor guy. In his drunken haze, he’d been so sure…
> 
> Richie shook off the memory, and prepared for the show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Yes I know it's Christmas - I am doing whatever I can to not go downstairs and talk to my family xD Anyway, enjoy! xx

Richie’s alarm drilled holes into his brain.

He didn’t have the energy to turn it off. Instead he just lay there, letting the noise prick at the inside of his skull. 

That night he had dreamt of Eddie. First, of his nervous laugh and terrible comebacks. Then, of his legs pressed against Richie’s in the hammock, his arms around Richie’s shoulders, his breath on Richie’s neck as they hugged.

Finally, of the spike through his chest. His warped screams. His blood.

Every night was the same. Though sometimes, fantasy intertwined with fact. Richie relished in the imaginary memory of a tentative kiss, or a soft palm against his cheek. Or a whisper of love. But these were always snatched away from him, just as Eddie had been.

Richie wished he was one of those people who could cry quietly, motionless and almost elegant. Instead, he was racked with grim sobs and tears and snot and spit and all manners of ugly. He tried to wipe away the tears, but it clung to his face like Eddie's blood had.

He ran to the bathroom and vomited into the sink.

~

The memory of Not-Eddie only emerged on the eve of his show. Embarrassment and guilt pressed on Richie’s shoulders – he had probably traumatised the poor guy. In his drunken haze, he’d been so sure…

Richie shook off the memory, and prepared for the show.

He didn’t sell out tonight, but it was a weekday and a sizeable venue, so he didn’t hold it against himself. The content was crude and a chasm away from genuine, but people paid to see it and a guy had to eat.

“You got 10 minutes Rich,” his manager called from the doorway, “get your waste of an ass in gear.”

God Richie hated that guy.

~

The show went… Well it went. It started and it ended and no one asked for a refund. He considered that a success.

“Thanks for listening everyone. I’m Richie Tozier and I hope you have a great night!” he bowed over-ceremoniously and waved, nodding to each corner of the audience.

His gaze caught on a small-ish figure a few rows from the back. His back was stiff, and his hands twitched frantically, as if he wanted to move without drawing attention.

It was Not-Eddie.

He wore a similar outfit as the other night: a white shirt under a lined denim jacket, and black jeans ripped at the knees. He looked younger than his age. _No_ , Richie corrected himself, _he looks younger than_ Eddie’s _age_. He’s probably younger than Eddie. Because he wasn’t Eddie. He was a stranger.

Richie hadn’t realised he had frozen until Not-Eddie stood abruptly and bolted out of the venue, taking the steps two at a time. This snapped Richie out of whatever coma he was caught in, sticking the mic on its stand and escaping backstage.

“I’m going for a smoke!” he yelled at his manager, and pushed open the emergency exit.

~

He found Not-Eddie trying to subtly speed-walk from the arena. The rest of the audience hadn’t yet left, and the streets were almost bare.

“Dude! Wait up,” Richie shouted, jogging to catch up to him. Not-Eddie turned, and his eyes widened almost with fear. Christ, had Richie spooked him that much? “I just wanna apologise for the other night. I was drunk as fuck and you… well you look like someone I used to know. I’m sorry if I freaked you out, man, seriously.”

Not-Eddie didn’t reply. He inhaled sharply and rubbed lurchingly at his neck. He seemed to be searching for words… or resisting the urge to punch Richie square across the jaw. Richie hope it was the first one.

Luckily, Not-Eddie exhaled and let his hand drop.

“Apology accepted.” He replied monotonously. He started down the street again, but Richie called after him.

“I didn’t catch your name!”

Not-Eddie glared at him, “I didn’t throw it!” _That’s what Eddie would’ve said_ , a hopeful voice whispered

After an unbothered, almost patient expression from Richie, he sighed. “It’s Jeremy. People call me Jem."

It felt like a nail in the coffin that had housed Richie since It. This wasn’t Eddie. Of course it wasn’t. Eddie wouldn’t live in LA. Eddie wouldn’t wear ripped jeans. Eddie wouldn’t come back from the fucking dead. 

“Well, I’ll see you around,” said Richie, turning to leave. He was close enough to hear Jeremy mumble “I sure hope not.”

A swamp of people drained from the auditorium, filling the streets like a malignant tumour, and he lost Jem in the faceless crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy IS, in fact, Eddie of course. I had to give him a different name, but he's not an OC or anything so don't worry :)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there you have it! I know I use ellipses too much... don't let it annoy the shit out of you! :)))


End file.
